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First

If nothing comes first

—there will be a Riot of time.

Over over-

Throw

there is nothing.

A, ad-

vance, a

Threat

of dark upon

light, the very Idea

of color.

Unred

the road, its

Turn a-

Part

—its pattern

a

connective void, the

Unlikely a-

Voidance of all

rays, of all right.

So hopeless is the play of Place,

canted to one & one condition, shun.

Now to speak the spike

Into unhurt name, the

heart—

That thought of that, that

thought of thought

alone—

from The Absolute LetterFind more by Andrew Joron at the library

Copyright © Andrew Joron
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Andrew Joron Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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